Page 7 of Babygirl for Christmas

“I won’t hurt you, baby.” I want to say more, but she’s already skittish, and I don’t want to overwhelm her.

We sit in comfortable silence for several long minutes, her relaxed against me until she pulls away completely. I decide it’s time to go even if it’s the last thing I want to do. She needs her space, and I’ll always give her what she needs. I want her to trust me. To love me.

“I should go and let you get some sleep.”

She gives me a thankful smile. “Okay…”

If there were a way to sound both disappointed and relieved at the same time, she just managed it. Needing one last taste, I pull her into a hug and press my lips to hers. She parts her lips easily, returning my kiss. Too soon, I release her and promise to see her soon. I leave her standing in her living room with her fingers held against her lips, and a look of shocked awe in her eyes.

7

CHERRY

I can’t sleep.

My body is still buzzing from Nick’s kisses. I’m not sure what got into me tonight. I’ve never been forward with men in my life, but tonight it was like all the emotions welled up and came out as tears, then lust. When I saw him yesterday for the first time in years, that old crush I harbored for him seemed to come roaring up from somewhere deep inside. It’s the only explanation I have for my behavior.

I roll to my side and pull the blankets closer, my mind drifting to his big arms wrapped around me, comforting me as I cried. I haven’t been held in so long I didn’t realize how starved I’ve been for the human contact. The way he rubbed soothing patterns on my back as he held me… the only explanation I have for what happened after is that having his muscular arms wrapped around me short-circuited something inside me.

Like an addict, I already ache for another taste of Nick. My skin itches to have his hands on me again and I pussy is still wet and needy for him. Part of me is pissed that he denied me. Another part loves that he stopped instead of letting my emotions guide my actions without thought. He knew I would regret it come morning—he’s right. I don’t understand his intentions. He’s thirteen years older than me, beyond handsome and successful. Why on earth would he want a curvy hairstylist who has baggage galore?

He said he’s going to make me his as if it’s a foregone conclusion and not just something he’s hoping for… a thrill shoots down my spine at the possibility. Pretty words and promises mean little though.

But what if he means it?What if I could have everything my young heart ever wished for all those years ago? And if what I’m feeling right now is, in fact, real… Why wouldn’t I give this thing a chance despite my fears?

Nick has the power to destroy me… my heart already looks like swiss cheese from the hole losing the one person who loved me in this world left behind. If I let myself get attached to him… I might not survive if he decided he didn’t want me anymore.

Or he could make all your dreams come true, my heart whispers.

Stupid heart.

I toss and turn for hours, replaying every minute of the evening with Nick, trying to suss out what his words and actions mean. My alarm goes off, and I wake up groggy and heartsick. I robotically get ready for work and leave my house in a haze. I’m tempted to stop for coffee, but I’m already late, and my job as the owner is to be a good example. Especially since tardiness has been the biggest struggle with several of my stylists.

Sam is standing outside the locked door, a broad smile on his face as his fingers fly over the screen of his cell phone. He looks up from his phone when he hears me approach, and his smile falls as he takes me in.

“You okay?”

“Just didn’t sleep well,” I say, shrugging it off. It’s best that I keep the real reason for the lack of sleep to myself. Sam will push until I tell him all of the details, and I just can’t handle that right now. Not when I’m still so confused about what’s happening between Nick and me. I need some time to process things on my own before I bring an outside opinion into it.

He nods in understanding. “I told you not to work so late. You’re going to burn yourself out.”

“It’s not like anyone else is volunteering,” I snap, instantly feeling bad about my outburst. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you.”

In typical Sam fashion, he just laughs, calls me a drama queen, and moves on. I wish I could brush things off so easily. I always internalize and pick things apart until I’m practically crazy with it. Grandma called me her little worrywart, and she wasn’t wrong. I’ve tried to change that about myself, but it’s impossible.

* * *

I’min the middle of a color for one of my clients when Jenny, our receptionist, shouts that there’s a walk-in for me. Frustration and annoyance fill me for more than one reason. First of all, Jenny knows I’m back-to-back with clients today, and so are all of the other stylists. None of us are taking walk-ins right now. It’s one of the busiest times of the year, and everyone here is booked solid. I get my client situated to process and prepare myself for a confrontation.

Jenny is busy filing her nails and smacking her gum instead of doing any of the dozen jobs that are her responsibility. I walk up directly behind her—anger replaces my annoyance at her lack of professionalism. Since day one, she’s tested me, and I’ve been lenient because she’s a single mom with two small children at home. She needs this job, but I need an employee who can be a team player and follow simple instructions.

“I told you no walk-ins,” I hiss, carefully keeping my voice low so that the client doesn’t hear me.

She smiles and in a saccharine sweet voice responds, “Oh goodness,” she presses her hand to her chest for dramatic effect, “I totally forgot.”

Like hell, she forgot. “We’ll talk about this after closing.” I grab the slip of paper with the client’s information on it out of her hand with more force than necessary.

“Judy?” I call out to the people waiting. A petite woman who has to be at least sixty years old stands from one of the chairs and shuffles toward me. I paste on a smile and direct her to my station.

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